A word from your resident poetry geek
Aug. 11th, 2004 11:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ceebeegeeIn Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Duncan's post made me think of this poem--I wrote a paper on it in college. My professor, Mr. Dabney, praised my paper anonymously in class (i.e., he didn't identify me)--he was this terribly elitist guy from an old Virginia family (I'm pretty sure Dabney is an FFV) who was disliked by many students, but with whom I got along very well. But then I'm an elitist intellectual too. I wrote that "Kubla Khan" is about the creative process--the fountains bubbling up are a metaphor for art, and the last image is the classic Romantic vision of the brooding, wild-eyed artist (and of course to Romantics, poetry was the crowning artistic pursuit). This type of uber-artist was famously embodied by Byron and to a lesser extent, Shelley, but Beethoven was a good example as well.
Okay, so blah blah blah analysis. I love analysis, love deconstructing a poem or a book--but just lie back and let these words wash over you.
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
There's a rhythm that lulls, like a train. And I love how "Down to a sunless sea" interrupts the rhythm slightly.
Sunny spots of greenery
I want to lie back in those beautiful sunny spots, listening to someone read this poem to me.
And then the poem leaps off the page and splatters all over you, forcing you to pay attention:
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
and this breathless phrase:
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
I can't bear it. That phrase is so perfect. Except that "perfect" quantifies it, and you can't quantify poetry. It just...I can't bear it.
I don't wish to capture the butterfly on the pin, so I'll leave with this:
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
Many are called--few are chosen. We are the artists--we are called to write, to compose, to act, to share our vision. We are the music makers/And we are the dreamers of dreams.
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Duncan's post made me think of this poem--I wrote a paper on it in college. My professor, Mr. Dabney, praised my paper anonymously in class (i.e., he didn't identify me)--he was this terribly elitist guy from an old Virginia family (I'm pretty sure Dabney is an FFV) who was disliked by many students, but with whom I got along very well. But then I'm an elitist intellectual too. I wrote that "Kubla Khan" is about the creative process--the fountains bubbling up are a metaphor for art, and the last image is the classic Romantic vision of the brooding, wild-eyed artist (and of course to Romantics, poetry was the crowning artistic pursuit). This type of uber-artist was famously embodied by Byron and to a lesser extent, Shelley, but Beethoven was a good example as well.
Okay, so blah blah blah analysis. I love analysis, love deconstructing a poem or a book--but just lie back and let these words wash over you.
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
There's a rhythm that lulls, like a train. And I love how "Down to a sunless sea" interrupts the rhythm slightly.
Sunny spots of greenery
I want to lie back in those beautiful sunny spots, listening to someone read this poem to me.
And then the poem leaps off the page and splatters all over you, forcing you to pay attention:
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
and this breathless phrase:
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
I can't bear it. That phrase is so perfect. Except that "perfect" quantifies it, and you can't quantify poetry. It just...I can't bear it.
I don't wish to capture the butterfly on the pin, so I'll leave with this:
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
Many are called--few are chosen. We are the artists--we are called to write, to compose, to act, to share our vision. We are the music makers/And we are the dreamers of dreams.
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no subject
Date: 2004-08-11 08:37 am (UTC)"to seek the sacred river alph
To walk the caves of ice
To break my fast on honey dew
And drink the milk of paradise...."
I had heard the whispered tales
Of immortality
The deepest mystery
From an ancient book. i took a clue
I scaled the frozen mountain tops
Of eastern lands unknown
Time and man alone
Searching for the lost ---- xanadu
Xanadu ---- to stand within the pleasure dome
Decreed by kubla khan
To taste anew the fruits of life
The last immortal man
To find the sacred river alph
To walk the caves of ice
Oh, i will dine on honey dew
And drink the milk of paradise
A thousand years have come and gone
But time has passed me by
Stars stopped in the sky
Frozen in an everlasting view
Waiting for the world to end
Weary of the night
Praying for the light
Prison of the lost ---- xanadu
Xanadu ---- held within the pleasure dome
Decreed by kubla khan
To taste my bitter triumph
As a mad immortal man
Nevermore shall i return
Escape these caves of ice
For i have dined on honey dew
And drunk the milk of paradise
More than paradise
no subject
Date: 2004-08-11 08:41 am (UTC)I'll see if I can find the paper I wrote on KK--it's probably at my mom's. BTW, she's looking for those two books I told you about that might, the ST books, and if she finds them she'll bring them up.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-11 08:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-11 12:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-11 12:19 pm (UTC)You're surprised that a rock band was inspired by Kubla Khan? Obviously, you've never heard of progressive rock :) One of my favorite songs was influenced by the Book of Revelations.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-11 12:50 pm (UTC)I've heard of progressive rock but know nothing of it.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-11 02:38 pm (UTC)"Prog rock" (sometimes called "art rock," "psychedelic rock," or "space rock") had it's heyday in the early 70's, before punk came along, as an antithesis to the "3-minute" format that dominated the music scene. It encompasses a lot of sub-genres, and there's a lot of disagreement on what it is. Generally speaking, prog rock tends to involve complex musical compositions with intricate guitar and keyboard playing, shifts in tempo, time, and mood, and the inclusion of classical, folk, jazz, and other non-rock styles. Long instrumental solos are common, as are synthesizers, and the lyrics tend to draw heavily on literature, fantasy, mythology, and the like. The biggest names in prog rock include Yes, Pink Floyd, Peter Gabriel, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Jethro Tull, The Alan Parsons Project, Rush, and my personal favorite, Genesis. I don't know if you'd like it or not, but I suspect that you'd probabably at least find it lyrically interesting.
actually...
Date: 2004-08-11 08:53 am (UTC)